


The Tale of the Champion

by dinosaurdragon



Series: Missing Moments from TWotS [12]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Cutscene Rewrite, Gen, Interrogation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 17:06:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6915796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosaurdragon/pseuds/dinosaurdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric's a self-proclaimed compulsive liar. Cassandra's looking for the Champion of Kirkwall. Someone's gotta give.</p><p>--</p><p>or: a retelling of the various cutscenes between Cassandra & Varric from Dragon Age II, edited so as to reflect The Way of the Story canon. probably can be read on its own, though some things may change apparently arbitrarily if you're unfamiliar with twots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Champions' Start

**Author's Note:**

> still running around like a chicken with its head cut off trying to get all my shit together. but i have a job in my hometown now! so i'm moving back there in about a week. there should be a Real Normal Chapter update next week. sorry for my continued delays, and thank you, to those reading twots, for your patience!
> 
> this particular fic WILL be multi-chaptered, and i'm basically dividing it up by start of act/end of act + start of new act. it'll be short chapters, though, and updated mildly sporadically. hopefully, when i'm set up back home again, i can update this while giving my regular stuff. (obviously putting the updates here only as i've finished the relevant parts in twots, bc spoilers.)

Varric cleared his throat and shook his head, trying to reorient himself after being so rudely shoved into a hard wooden chair. “I’ve had gentler invitations,” he said, managing at least to maintain his wit.

A woman walked into the dim light of whatever interrogation room had been commandeered. “I am Cassandra Pentaghast,” she announced, head held high and shoulders straight, “Seeker of the Chantry.” She nodded, and the two guards on either side of him left the room.

“And just what are you seeking?” Varric asked, chuckling slightly at his own joke. Malia would’ve appreciated it, he was certain.

“The Champion.”

He regarded his gloves. The seams were starting to wear; maybe he should purchase new ones. Chancing but a glance at the imposing Seeker, he carefully kept his cavalier attitude in place. “Which one?”

She charged at him, which he hadn’t been expecting, but he had nowhere to go. He might as well have been strapped down to the chair for how swiftly she moved. “You know exactly why I’m here!” she accused.

A thick book hit him in the chest and fell open in his lap. She drew a dagger and put it at his throat, preventing him from looking down at its pages, but that was truthfully of little consequence: he knew precisely which book she had thrown at him. He’d written it, after all. It wasn’t the first time it had been thrown in his direction—though it was, perhaps, the first time it had been done with such force.

“Time to start talking, dwarf!” The dagger did not move at his throat. Cassandra’s hand was amazingly steady, though. He counted his blessings. “They tell me you’re good at it.” She shoved the dagger through one half of the book. As she walked away, he picked up the ruined pages with considerable awe—either she was particularly strong, or the dagger was particularly sharp… and it didn’t slit his glove when he tested its tip.

He huffed a bit. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Start at the beginning.” She crossed her arms, staring down at him like a king might stare at an intruding mouse.

He smiled at the Seeker, a large and deceitful smile, and began to tell the story of Garrett Hawke. It started, as ever, with the mage facing darkspawn hordes outside Lothering, standing against them with only his brother, Carver, at his side. The darkspawn ran at them in waves, ceaseless and merciless, but the brothers held them off with both flair and efficiency.

While Garrett rained fire and destruction upon the mindless creatures, Carver stood stalwart and halved any who drew near. They worked well together, like they’d been doing it all their lives--and perhaps they had, in Varric’s story. As a dragon swooped from above, inadvertently providing a dubiously safe passage for the men, Cassandra growled and slammed her hands upon the table.

“Bullshit!” she accused. “That’s not what really happened.”

Varric raised one eyebrow. She was smarter than he gave her credit for, perhaps. Not entirely unusual. He tended to assume people were stupid, on the whole, until proven otherwise. “Does that not match the story you’ve heard, Seeker?”

“I’m not interested in stories.” She paced the room, her glare nearly as sharp as her voice, and both pinned him quite effectively to the chair—not that he’d tell her as much, of course. “I came to hear the truth!”

“What makes you think I know the truth?” he asked, tossing a hand blithely to the side.

“Don’t lie to me!” She stalked back to him, one gauntleted finger pointing dangerously close to his face. He raised his hands in surrender. “You knew him even before he became the Champion!”

Letting his hands fall slowly, Varric resisted a snarl. “Even if I did, I don’t know where he is now.”

Disgusted, Cassandra turned fully away for the first time. He knew what she wanted, and she was positive he could tell her, but he continued to refuse, to play dumb. “Do you have any idea what’s at stake here?” she demanded.

“Let me guess,” he said. He chose his next words as carefully as if he were writing, wanting each to have the same sort of impact he managed with words on a page. “Your precious Chantry’s fallen to pieces, and put the entire world on the brink of war… and you need the one person who could help you put it back together.”

She faced him again as he spoke, and her voice was less angry when she spoke next. He’d been right, of course. This only confirmed his suspicions. “The Champion was at the center of it when it all began,” she explained, slowly. “If you can’t point me to him, tell me everything you know.”

He leaned forward, daring for the first time to offer a slight challenge of power. “You aren’t worried I’ll just make it all up as I go?” He’d done that before. He was good at it.

“Not at all.” She even smiled.

He leaned back, grinning at her confidence and determination, and pressed his fingertips together in front of himself. “You’ll need to hear the _whole_ story.”

Much was the same as before.

Except there were five Hawkes at the start of this story: Leandra, the mother; Carver, the brother; Bethany, the sister; Garrett, the first-mentioned Champion and mage; and Malia, the oldest Hawke, the _other_ Champion. Through it all, Cassandra listened silently, even as Leandra cried over Bethany's body. That there was another Hawke—another Champion—didn’t seem to surprise her. Perhaps she’d really done her homework; perhaps she’d heard the rumors.

But when he spoke of Flemeth, of the deal the Hawkes made to leave Lothering alive… well, that, it would seem, was a different problem altogether.

“Flemeth,” she interrupted, voice flat.

“I thought that might interest you.” Varric smiled.

“You expect me to believe that a _myth_ swooped out of the wilds to save the Champion— _Champions_.” She waved a hand as if to demonstrate how utterly foolish she thought the idea.

He chuckled. How terrible. Varric was starting to _like_ this woman. “Oh, come now, Seeker! Do I need to recite the tale of the Wardens, as well?”

Cassandra sighed, pursing her lips momentarily. He thought she looked like she’d been ordered to eat something unpleasant. “No. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised to hear of her involvement.”

“I liked my version better, too.” He shrugged, and she shook her head, perhaps trying to rearrange all the information in a physical manner, as if that might help.

“What _else_ aren’t you telling me, then? Did she send someone with the Champions?” Oooh, she really _was_ smart!

He smirked, no longer avoiding her gaze. She was simply too entertaining to watch. “In a manner of speaking.”

“So it’s true.” She jerked her head at him commandingly. “Continue. But if you tell me they all flew to Kirkwall on a dragon…”

“Nothing so fanciful, I assure you,” he promised, and launched into the story with gusto. He’d been waiting far too long to tell the truth—and if there were still a few lies, well. He’d always been a compulsive liar.


	2. Mentions of Mittens

When Varric mentioned two Wardens, Cassandra narrowed her eyes but said nothing. He had expected another interruption—she certainly hadn’t held back before. When he was able to even mention the shapeshifting with no more than a mild huff in response, he stopped himself. She raised her eyebrows at him in an obvious question, and he crossed his arms. “You’re not surprised,” he said.

“No,” she replied, and then she had the audacity to smirk. If Varric were a revolutionary apostate sort, it’d be ruffling all his feathers. Since he wasn’t, it mostly just rankled.

“You knew!” he accused, entirely betrayed. How could she have known about _that_ but been skeptical about Flemeth? Then again, she’d also been unsurprised about Malia. But the shapeshifting should have been a shock, at least! Right?

“I did.” The smirk didn’t leave her face. “You did not forget how well-connected that Warden is, did you?”

He sighed, remembering the odd kinds of mail he’d received on Vir’era’s behalf throughout the years—mail from kings and queens, from princesses and commanders, arls and even the Divine’s Left Hand herself. “How could I? I’m more curious how you knew.”

“And _I_ am curious why you did not mention him in your book.” She jerked her head at the pages, eyebrows lifted and a slight frown on her lips.

Varric laughed at that, a real laugh, one which filled the room with mirth for just a moment. He hadn’t laughed so genuinely in a long while. Possibly not since leaving the Hawkes. “Would you believe me if I said it was because he’d asked?”

She considered the words, watching him impassively as she did. “I suppose. I have yet to meet him myself, but I have been told he manages somehow to extract the most unusual promises.”

Something about her words and the way she held herself suggested that she fully expected to make his acquaintance. With all that was happening now, with the Divine’s conclave coming up… Well, quite frankly, Varric would be more surprised if Vir’era wasn’t somehow in the thick of it. He smiled a bit ruefully, shaking his head.

“That he does, Seeker. That he does.”


	3. Beware, All Ye Who Enter Here

“No!” Cassandra interrupted, waving a hand for emphasis. “This can’t be right. The Champion was an apostate who came to Kirkwall to spread subversion against the Chantry. Accompanied and abetted by his sister, when she is mentioned.” Varric watched calmly, deciding it was best to let her finish whatever it was she wanted to say before correcting her. He did love correcting people. “But _you_ claim this wasn’t the case! The Champions just _happened_ to have dealings with the Qunari, join forces with a known raider, a blood mage, a rebel Warden—and for what? Coin?”

When she stopped pacing in time with her list of grievances, she stared him down, waiting for his explanation. And who was he to disappoint? “Maybe it’s not as simple as you imagine, Seeker,” he said, actually and genuinely trying to get her to believe that. For once, it was the whole truth.

“ _Simple?_ ” She sneered at him and took a step forward, increasing the angle he needed to look up, and her voice was again as fierce as it had been when she first abducted him. “Do I need to remind you what your friend did? Do I need to tell you how many lives have been lost—how many _more_ will be lost?” He winced, still not over that. He wasn’t sure he ever would be. _Damn, Blondie, you really fucked up,_ he thought, not for the first time.

She pointed at him again. “You _cannot_ sit there and tell me they are innocent!” She really, really believed that the Hawkes had had a hand in Anders’ mess. Most people did, true, but… he’d started to expect better from her, somehow. Not that they’d been talking more than—oh, a couple hours, but she knew about Vir’era! About the shapeshifting! It hadn’t seemed entirely unreasonable to expect she might realize the Hawkes weren’t involved in the way everyone thought.

Still, she had a point. Garrett, especially, had been something of an enabler. He scrunched his nose and raised a placating hand. “I don’t know if ‘innocent’ is the right word, exactly…”

“They must have known,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard him, or simply didn’t care that he’d spoken, since he wasn’t outright refuting her. “ _Somehow_ the Champions knew what was down there. That’s why they wanted to join your expedition!”

“No,” Varric said, his voice coming out hoarse, and not from how much he’d been talking. He could remember the ugly way the red lyrium twisted things around itself, could recall with perfect clarity the haunted look that had started to seem permanent on Vir’era’s face when the elf had been exposed to it for so long. The way even Vir’era’s healing magic had barely held back the grey blotches and black veins of the Blightsickness from overtaking Carver. “None of us knew. If we had, they wouldn’t have let their brother step foot into that Blighted hole.”

“Is that so?” Cassandra asked, narrowing her eyes at him. He met them wearily, not particularly pleased to be rehashing this part of the story. But he couldn’t skip over any of it, not like he did with some things he hadn’t had to change, because this time both Malia and Garrett were present all the time, and Vir’era was a focal point. (That had been hard to work around in the official book.) “Then tell me _your_ version of what happened on this expedition.”

He took a breath and leaned forward. “Well, we entered the Deep Roads as planned, but we didn’t get very far.”


End file.
